Doing It Yet?
by perfectsmuttyvampire
Summary: Nothing to do with The Killers’ song. Slashy Drarry, always good, now even tangier. This is also a very special birthday gift to Alice - Tiny ball of energy : Have a good one!


_**TITLE: Doing It Yet?**_

_**SUMMARY: Nothing to do with The Killers' song. Slashy Drarry, always good, now even tangier. This is also a very special birthday gift to Alice - Tiny ball of energy : ) Have a good one!**_

_**No magic, all happy human types.**_

DPOV

"Oh, for God's sake, Draco, cheer up," he yells, impatiently. "And hurry up, whilst you're at it!"

"Shut up, Potter. You can't hurry a masterpiece!"

"Oh yes, I can, now move it, before I come up those stairs and kick your ass to the car!"

He's been my flatmate for too long. He knows me too well, and I know him too well. We're friends, really good friends. Met at university, where I took pre-med and he took English Literature, and then a Post-Graduate Certificate of Education. He's tapping his foot impatiently.

"We'll be _late,_ Malfoy, now get in the damn car!"

"Need my -"

"Got your jacket, got your wallet, got your keys. Move!" I move. He hates being late. Actually, he hates most things. His pupils are either terrified of him or in love with him. But he really hates being late, even if it's just a casual Chinese with our old Uni mates.

I strap in, and hold on. He drives like a psychopath, and I generally close my eyes. He teases me, and whenever I drive, he complains relentlessly. A week into our first term at university, he sliced his hand with a bread knife, needed stitches. I drove him to the hospital, and even though he was losing blood pretty fast, he still moaned that I was driving badly and slowly - unforgivable offences in the green eyes of Harry James Potter. He's got a damn nice car, and yes, OK, so if you got it, flaunt it, but still. I keep telling him he'll wind up in a smash, but he never listens.

"We're going to be late," he moans, tapping his fingers dangerously on the wheel. He's wearing his sunglasses against the evening sunset, and he's glaring through them at traffic. It's got to be said, I see why his students love him, that is a gorgeous piece of kit - and I'm not talking about the car. I try hard not to let my mind wander. I try hard not to fantasise. "Oh, for God's sake, move!" He bellows at a car who has failed to respond to a green light. "I bet that tosser's on his phone…" He blasts the horn, and traffic starts to move. He slams in rock music. He hates driving to news cycles. I get my phone out and get a traffic report off the BBC.

"Kingston Road's blocked, accident, you'll have to find another way -"

"Well, that's just great," he snaps, and does a last minute turn, earning horn blasts from other drivers, and rockets off. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, the police are up ahead," I say, and he slows right down. He always forgets about the cop car that hides around the blind corner, waiting for speeders. He sneaks past at 30, and mutters about going slowly for the whole one hundred yards we're in sight of the police. We make it on time, as we always do. He worked as a cabbie for a while in Uni, and knows this town really well.

He locks his car, double and triple checks it has locked, and only then are we allowed to go inside. Harry treats his car like other men treat their kids. Hermione Granger, my fellow doctor at the hospital, gives us both a hug, and then checks her pager. We're both "on call" which basically means that if anything bad happens, we get paged, and we have to run. Blaise, who is now manager of a very big company since his Dad died, is looking as expensive as ever, and shakes hands. I practically hear Harry's voice in my head making a note to get him wasted. Last time they went drinking, Blaise woke up on a roundabout - Harry woke up on the bathroom floor at the flat with a hangover, no memory of what had happened, and no idea what he'd done with Blaise. He'd had to work with that hangover. Ron - who is still not with Granger (I make notes to match-make) is still "between jobs" after he quit the publishing company he works for. Still not got the story on that one.

"Pansy and Theodore called," Hermione explains. "They can't make it."

"Why?"

"Pansy's mother has arrived unannounced." That explains everything - we are all scared of Pansy's mother, bar Harry, who could charm his way past a dragon. We sit down, and order drinks. It's a buffet, an all you can eat buffet. My favourite kind.

Harry makes me help him make his duck pancakes. He's too impatient, and they always rip and break, and spill duck and sauce all over him. I put them on my plate, so he can't break them between now and the table. He gets prawn crackers, sesame prawn toast, some rib things and chicken balls. He'll be going back, I know. This is his starter. There'll be plenty more - sweet and sour chicken, chicken in garlic and plum sauce, deep fried shredded beef, roast duck Cantonese style and plenty of special fried rice. And lots more prawn toast, which is his favourite. Oh, God, I even know exactly what he eats. I need to get laid.

I give him his pancakes, and Hermione watches us over her glass of wine and giggles to herself. Harry puts his beer down and raises his eyebrows at her. I find my own wine interesting.

"What? I got sauce on my face? My shirt?"

"Nothing, Harry dear. You go back to your toast." He gives up and starts eating again.

Ron finally brings it up. Ron is not famous for subtlety and once told his professor he was an asshole. Amazingly, he passed his course. I'm stealing ice cream from Harry's dessert bowl.

"You two shagging yet?" Hermione snorts her wine out her nose and chokes. Blaise bangs her on the back, and gives her some water. When she's stopped spluttering, she looks up, eyes streaming.

"Ronald! You cannot just ask that, for God's sake -"

"What? What? Why not? Everyone can see they want to -" I make a wild grab for my rapidly retreating dignity.

"Ron, are you shagging Hermione yet?" Ron goes purple. "There you go." He steals the last scoop of ice-cream. I'm too humiliated to protest. He drops his hands under the table, pretending to be going for the serviette on his lap, but squeezes the hand I slip into his. This is what is good about where we are now. If I get my ass burned by some loser, or if I screw up, I can put my hand in his, and he'll pull me close, hug me, and stroke his thumb over the back of my hand. They know this, they all do. And yeah, ok, so maybe I want to shag him, but he doesn't want to shag me.

We go our separate ways, arranging to meet at our place for some of Harry's cooking next weekend. I have a shift tomorrow. I need an early night. He drives us home, going the quick way round because he knows I have to work. He might get weekends off, figuratively anyway, but there's a reason why he's already head of department at twenty-five. He does three times the work every other teacher in his department does. The kids genuinely love his classes and the I hear the pass rate has over doubled since he started working there. He'll be headmaster somewhere by the time he's thirty five.

He lets us in, and trips over the doormat. We need to replace it. It's ripped, and he falls over it every day. He'll get seriously hurt, and damn, but I'm not having him bash that pretty face up. He doesn't get us wine, like he would if I wasn't on call and due a shift tomorrow. He gets us orange juice.

"Draco," he says, suddenly. I start and jolt upright. I was falling asleep there.

"What? I'll go to bed -"

"No, don't. I just want to talk."

"OK, Casanova, lets talk." I say this simply because he always "wants to talk" when there's a guy involved.

"Not like that this time, Draco," he murmurs.

"What is it like?"

"In the restaurant, tonight."

"Yeah."

"What Ron said." I don't need any further clarification. I ask for it nonetheless.

"Which bit?"

"When he asked us if we were sleeping together."

"Harry, where's this going?"

"Would that be such a terrible thing?"

The silence drags. He looks mortified, and sets down his glass.

"Forget I said -" I grab him, and climb into his lap.

"You don't know," I say, breathing hard - half anger, half because I'm already horny - "how long I have waited to hear those words come out of your mouth." He kisses me. And it's hard, and fast, and passionate, and it's Harry - like he drives, like he lives. He doesn't do anything by halves, and apparently this includes kissing. His hands are gripping and flexing on my hips, and I sieze his upper arms. Oh, dear God, those muscles… He's a teacher, for God's sake…and every fantasy is now exploding in my head…and shit, but I'm hard. He'll feel it, he has too. There's no space between us. He grinds his hips upwards, and I groan, some weird noise coming out my mouth, high-pitched, tinny - wait.

Not my voice.

Pager.

I very nearly throw the damn thing across the room. Harry's breathing hard, hair messier than ever - did my hands do that? When did they get up there? His eyes are glazed.

"I'm going to fucking kill your boss. It's going to be fucking slow and fucking painful." I check the message, not budging from his lap. There's been one of those major incident deals. There's no way to get out of this. "Ride?" He asks, rolling his hips. I moan.

"I have to go…" I mutter, gluing myself to his lips and snogging him again.

"Do you need a ride?"

"Yes, both kinds," I groan. He snarls.

"Seriously, your motherfucking son of a bitch boss is going to fucking die, the bastard."

"When I get back, whenever that is, I am going to expect you to be naked, hard and ready to fucking shag me until I scream your name, you got that, Potter?"

"It'll be my pleasure."

He drives me, is very well-behaved, but instead of a goodbye, it's a kiss. It's harsh and full of promise. I know that the sex will be good, and that'll have to do, for now.

I go for twelve straight hours. Hermione assaults me in the staff room.

"You and Harry are going to go for it!" I open my mouth, and she rolls her eyes. "Scrubs don't hide hard ons, and your lips looked like a bee had attacked you repeatedly."

"Thanks for that, I'm glad it was obvious, that would have looked really professional."

"Draco, go home, drag him from his marking or planning or whatever, and shag. That's an order."

So I do what she says, as what she says is normally right.

He's not naked, but he is topless, marking homework, tutting every now and again. He teaches some right plonkers, and it kills him when they don't drool over well-written books. He probably gets hard over books and language, and some of the slang they use probably causes the poor nerd some real serious pain. I watch him for a while, and then he writes some comment at the end of an essay, which is probably very sarcastic.

"Do you have any idea how terrible these hours have been?" I ask him, leaning over the back of the sofa to whisper. Strong hands grab me, and I am manhandled over the back of the sofa. I'm back in his lap. He's past going to bed, he's already rock hard. I wrestle with his jeans, and he rips my scrubs apart. Excuse me, but these things are material, how strong do you need to be?

"Damn, those scrubs were your uniform, sorry, but god you're hot…" I get his buckle undone. He's not wearing boxers, or any kind of underwear. He hisses, and his cock springs free. I nearly keel over. It's not especially big, I've seen bigger, but it's beautiful. I trace the vein that stands out, the throbbing pulse I can feel just in front of his balls. I press gently, and he snarls something unintelligible. He stands up, bringing me with him. I yelp, and try and put my legs down. But he's so much taller than me, and I can't reach. "Don't you fucking dare," he whispers, biting my earlobe. "I'll carry you." I know we're only moving because he needs lube - and I could do it without, I wouldn't give a shit at this point, but I like it that he remembered. I wrap my legs around him, and he carries me to his room.

And he fucks me. I literally scream when he gets inside me, and holds there, waiting. He thinks I'm in pain.

"If you move, Potter, I'll kill you myself!" And he moves, pounding me, and I can feel every single inch, and I'm falling apart at the seams, he feels so good, and his hands are everywhere, on my cock, on my chest, my legs, in my hair. He kisses me, it's possessive, dominating. And then he hits something inside me and I swear, snarl, moan, his name spills off my lips, he speeds up, keeps hitting that spot, pumps me once and I come with a series of swear words mingled with his name, a series of moans and groans, and then he follows me over that slippy edge into darkness. His hands tighten on my hips, I know they'll bruise, and then he collapses onto me. He's panting, breathing hard and mumbling my name again and again.

I can't even walk on Monday. I have to hobble out of his car, into work, and as he drives off to his job, I would swear he was laughing. Hermione makes me tea, and gives me knowing glances.

And I think this is the start of something good…

_**A/N: Seeing as it seems to be "old school" to give reviews, lets all go retro! My potter stories never get many reviews, and I'd really like some! Hope you liked it, Alice - Tiny ball of energy! **_


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